


vanilla

by peachyteabuck



Series: vanilla [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit talk of kinks, F/M, Sub Steve Rogers, dom reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: after some heckling from clint and sam, you and steve discuss your kinks





	vanilla

You were trying to find something to eat in your fridge, scanning the various tupperware containers for anything edible. You sighed deeply. It’s not that you weren’t hungry, it’s just that you weren’t hungry for anything you already had. Finally, you decide on a bowl of cereal and almond milk. You forgo walking all the way to the dining room table for simply eating at the counter, something your mother always scolded you for.

You were halfway through your second bowl when Clint and Sam came bursting out the elevator, followed by your boyfriend, a furiously blushing Steve Rogers.

“I can’t-” Clint stops in his tracks, clutching his stomach and almost falling to the floor.

Steve is still red in the face, and can barely get a word in before Sam interrupts him. You eat calmly, hoping the loud interaction quiets down soon. Those three could badger each other for hours, and right now, you weren’t having it.

“Seriously bro, c’mon! You really thought between nineteen-whatever and now, that sex would stay the same?” Sam is almost wheezing by the end.

You rolled your eyes, finally understanding what they were laughing at. Ever since Steve had discovered what PornHub was (which was about…three weeks ago, you had no idea how it’d taken him that long, honestly), they had been merciously teasing him.

You sighed, stood up, and used yourself as a physical barrier between your boyfriend and the others.

“Guys, leave him alone,” you scolded. “Don’t you two have training sessions with Nat?” You raised your eyebrows, daring them to disagree with you. In truth, you didn’t know what either of them had on their schedules today. And, in truth, you didn’t care. You just wanted them to stay off of Steve’s back. You know he got insecure about these things, as you’d imagine anyone would if they had to go through what he did.

They both gave out one last chuckle and scrambled their way out of the elevator. You and Natasha had worked closely throughout your time at for Stark Industries. They knew that even if they didn’t intend to spar with her, you would make it so (and maybe you whispered to Natasha to go extra hard on them, but just maybe).

You had worked with him (and a group of other therapists) extensively in an effort to get him acclimated to the 2010s, but sex, and everything in relation to it, didn’t make the cut. Maybe you thought it would be too awkward, maybe he thought it would be too awkward, maybe you were too busy explaining the anti-vaccination movement to him.

Either way, he was stuck on his own when it came to him, his dick, and what he did with it.

This also meant that you two had barely had sex in your eight month relationship. It wasn’t something you needed to have to be happy with a person, but it would…be appreciated. Still, you stuck by your man, and if he didn’t want to have sex, you didn’t have sex.

Additionally, Steve trusted you to answer any question he had (about anything he wanted to know) honestly, and to keep the conversations you had private.

So, when Steve came to your office during work hours, you didn’t really bat an eyelash. You were currently looking over some paperwork you could probably pass off to someone else, trying to figure out whether or not you should increase Bucky’s weekly therapy sessions.

Steve cleared his throat once, simply standing there, taking up almost the whole doorway. You looked up at him and smiled, inviting him to come in.

He knows the drill. He flips over the sign on your door from “COME IN!” to “DO NOT DISTURB,” and sits down on the overly plush couch across from you. You stay in your swivel chair, facing him.

“Sam and Clint asked you called me ‘daddy’ when we have…” Steve isn’t meeting your eyes as he speaks. Usually he’s pretty confident, or at least good at faking it.

Now he’s looking behind you, staring at the adornments on your desk. You know he’s looking at all of the pictures by the angle of his pupils.

His eyes catch on a few particular ones. Your childhood dog as a puppy, a picture of the skyline of your hometown.

You laugh a little, unable to contain it. It’s a desperate attempt to lighten the mood.

It doesn’t work.

“Do you want me to respond as a therapist with a PhD in trauma studies, or your loving and dedicated girlfriend?” you ask.

Steve meets your eyes now. He was just about done with the line of pictures and would’ve had to look up next. Your diplomas and awards are at an awkward angle, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to turn his neck like that.

He rambles. “I don’t know…you know I love you, right? Like, I really do. And I know we’re going slower than…than other people…but you understand, right? You understand that it’s not…it’s not because I don’t love you, it’s just…I just need…”

While he speaks, his chest rises and falls at a rapid rate. You go over to him, pulling his head to the crook in your neck.

Rubbing his back, you shush him. “I love you, too, babe…” he visibly exhales at that. “Listen, I love you, too. And I’m here for you. Don’t worry, if you want to wait, I’ll wait. I’m with you because I love you, not because I want a quick lay.”

He pulls away, smiling a little. “Thank you…let me, let me thank you…”

You’re about to protest, but he immediately stops you with one of those million-dollar smiles. “Not, I don’t mean like that…let me take you out on a date, to that restaurant you like?”

You bite your lip and smile. “That’d be great.”

The date is nice, just how everything with Steve is. That man is perfect, a ray of golden light illuminating your life.

You two speak the next morning at breakfast. You’re eating a bowl of cereal again, Steve is making an omelette. That fancy bastard.

A comforting silence falls over you two. The scrape of the whisk against the bowl, the chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of the pan.

Steve is the one who speaks first. He calls out your name softly.

“(Y/N), can I ask you a weird question?” Steve is still facing the stove. You can see his back muscles ripple through his worn pajama shirt.

You swallow the too-soggy cereal before you snap yourself back to reality. “Uh…sure.”

Steve clears his throat. “What does ‘vanilla’ mean?”

You’re shocked. You cough a little, causing half-eaten bites of your breakfast to shoot up your throat. This makes you cough viciously.

Steve turns around, going to make sure you’re okay. You can barely meet his eyes, even as you wave him off and assure him you’re fine.

You set your bowl in the sink, and hop back onto the counter.

You’re unsure of how to answer the question. It’s obvious he means vanilla in bed. It takes you a minute, but you figure brutal honesty is best, as it always is with him.

“It means,” you pause. He stares deep into your eyes. God, he’s so handsome. “It means…it means you’re not kinky.”

He turns back to the stove, turning it off. The omelette is burned a little due to your choking escapade. He still plates them before asking his next question.

“What does ‘kinky’ mean?” he takes a bite of the eggs. Chewing slowly, he watches your every move.

You speak slowly, carefully. You now understand why your parents were so awkward when you asked where babies come from.

“It means you like…you like a lot of different things in bed…” you chew your bottom lip. You have zero idea of the proper way to answer him. Explaining how much phones had changed, or what computers were, was easier than this.

“What do you mean…’a lot?’ Like, what are those things?” He asks. His voice is small, quiet. Anyone who was walking in from the common room would only be able to hear you.

In an effort to not lose your mind, you revert back to the way you taught everything to Steve: simple, small things first, then build up to more complicated ones.

Finger in the butt, and then suspension. Oral, then anal. Handjobs, then electrocution.

You take a deep breath before beginning. “There are some people who like to be…spanked…and there are people who like to spank…” Steve’s eyes are wide. He doesn’t say anything, though, so you continue. “There are also people who like to wear collars…”

After a while, Steve’s eyes go back to normal size. After going over the basics, you take his relaxed stance as a sign to go more in depth. “There are people who like to dominate, ‘dom’ for short and there are people who ‘sub,’ or take the submissive role. The dominate takes more authority, they’re in charge of the other person, or people. The submissive role is…”

You look him up and down. You’re standing now, he’s leaning against the counter. All of the food has been consumed, dirty dishes placed in the dishwasher.

You balance on your hands behind you. “Am I make sense? Should I slow down?”

Steve shakes his head. His talent for unwavering eye contact is unprecedented, and this time you’re the one who looks away. You shouldn’t do that, you’re a professional. You’re the one who explained to Steve the Civil Rights movement, both landmark Rodriguez Supreme Court cases, and  yoga pants.

This shouldn’t be this hard.

But here, in this kitchen, you’re not one of the best trauma specialists in the Western hemisphere. You’re not the woman with the PhD. You’re not the highly decorated therapist. You’re not a published author.

Here, in this kitchen, you are the girlfriend of Steven Grant Rogers. You are a flustered girl attempting to explain to your boyfriend how BDSM works.

Your conversation (which barely meets the threshold for one, since you’re doing ninety-nine percent of the talking) is only ended what feels like hours later when you get a text from Stark, asking you to meet him up in your office.

It’s that night when you’re about to go to bed that Steve finds you again. You’d assumed that, after what you had told him, that he would want time to process everything. So, you made your way back to your own apartment and got ready for bed.

You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you hear a knock on the door. When you answer it, Steve is hunched over in the doorway. His face mirrors that of a kicked puppy.

You feel terrible.

“Did I do something wrong?” He mumbles.

Immediately, you melt. You feel so, so fucking bad.

“No,” you tell him. “Of course you didn’t.”

Steve sniffles. “Then why didn’t you come to my apartment after your meeting with Tony?”

“I thought you needed some time to process everything we talked about…” you answer honestly.

Steves shrugs. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He looks behind you again. This time, it’s not at pictures, but at your messy apartment. You practically moved into Steve’s, most of your clothes were there, most of your stuff was there, too. It was almost bare. It looked like you didn’t live there.

Truly, it was because you didn’t. Your heart and all your crap belonged with Steve and his crap.

He shakes his head. “No…I mean, I do, I need time to process, I need time to think about everything, I mean, you know this…how long, do you remember how long it took for me to figure out you weren’t lying about the water bottle industry?”

You laugh loudly at that, snorting a little.  It took him months to figure out you weren’t joking, there really were people who sold water in small containers that couldn’t be reused or recycled. Truthfully, you hadn’t used a single one since. “Yeah, that did take awhile.”

Steve sighs. Not the sigh you use when Tony refuses to see his therapist, or when Wanda steals your coffee cup from your hands. This sigh is loving, it’s relieved.

His hands come to cup your cheeks. They’re warm, firm. “Let me come in, or come up to mine. I’ll make you something, and we can take a hot bath, or whatever. I just don’t want to be not around you.”

You nod, wanting to be around him, too.

Later that night, you’re sitting in bed. He’s reading, you’re emailing back and forth with some magazine about an interview. The only sound in the room is music quietly coming from your phone on the right bedside table and your typing.

Steve is laying against pillows, while you sit upright at the end of the bed.

Just like before, Steve is the one to break the comfortable silence.

“Hey, (Y/N), you trust me, right?”

You don’t look up, thinking nothing of it. Steve, like anyone who’s been through one-sixteenth of what he has, needs a lot of reassurance. “Of course, babe,” you tell him.

His voice is more stern the second time. “(Y/N).”

You roll your eyes, but still don’t meet his. You’re not even sure what you’re looking at on your laptop screen at this point. “What?”

“Not like, ‘Oh, yeah, I can trust you not to cheat on me or murder me in my sleep.’ I mean, you do trust me?” Steve’s eyes burn into yours, and you can feel electricity dance across your skin. This must be how it feels to be struck by lightning.

Your face feels hot. You gnaw on your own lip in an attempt not to moan.

“Yeah,” your voice is just above a whisper. “Yeah…yeah, I trust…I trust you.”

Steve takes your now-closed laptop (When did you shut it? Did he close it? Did you close it?) and places it gingerly in its assigned drawer. Then he mutes your phone.

He remains laid back against the pillows and headboard, legs crossed languidly. You suddenly feel a cosmic pull to him.

Placing yourself on his lap, facing him, is the most erotic thing you’ve ever done. This really, truly, can’t get better…until it does.

“Tell me what you like…” Steve whispers it to you, but it feels it’s a megaphone in your ear. “Tell me your kinks.”

You bite your lip again, staring deep into his eyes. You’re speechless. Your jaw hangs open and your chest heaves as you desperately think of an answer.

“I…want..” is all you can choke out. Your words catch in your throat like a fly caught in a spiderweb.

Steve kisses from the edge of your shoulder to your earlobe. Once the line is finished, he sighs into your ear again. “Tell me everything (Y/N), leave nothing untold…”

You moan again. Fuck, You think. Take me now.

Taking a deep breath, you try to speak again. “I wanna fuck you. I wanna tie you up and wipe tears from your eyes while I deny you relief. I want to see big, strong Captain America reduced to a whimpering, begging mess…”

This time, Steve moans. It’s low in his throat. You want to leave bruises on his milky skin.

Steve’s eyes are screwed shut, his head leaning back. You feel his hard on through his sweatpants and your sleep shorts, which you’ve probably soaked through by now.

“Tell me more…” he manages to get out. “There’s more…there has to be more…”

You rub against him and sigh happily. “I wanna ride you, I wanna drip hot wax down your back…I wanna hear your cries of pain…I wanna ride your face until you cum just from giving me pleasure. I wanna…fuck, Steve, I wanna take care of you after, too. I wanna draw hot baths for you like you did for me and listen to your moans of pleasure as I wipe a warm washcloth across your body to clean the sweat and tears and cum off of you.”

He moans again. “Please…please that’s what I,  that’s what I want, too.”

You smile, kissing down the side of his face. Your body surges with confidence after every sweet moan reaches your ears. “All you gotta do is ask, baby…”

“God,” now his chest is heaving. You feel another shot of adrenaline, and with that, a shot of courage. Reducing a supersoldier to a whining mess is a hell of a drug.

You stop mouthing over his jugular. “Please what, baby? You gotta tell me what you want.”

Steve moans come from higher in his throat this time, and you can feel his dick twitch.

“I want…I want you to be in charge, fuck I remember the first day I met you, you were bossing Clint around, making him move stuff for you and telling him what to do. You scolded him when he dropped your shit and praised him when we did it the way you liked. Same day, you yelled at Tony to do something and he did it, just fucking did it, I’d never seen him do that before. It was, for fucking sure, the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He doesn’t stop talking. For awhile in your early twenties, you were a sugar baby. You needed the money to pay for your path into social work. Once, a client paid off all of your student loans while you sucked his dick. That didn’t hold a candle to what was happening in front of your very eyes.

“Then after you started working with me, trying to get me used to everything, all you fucking did was boss me around. Told me what to do and where to go, always tell me the truth about stuff…the others, they skirted around bad stuff, but no, you didn’t. Told me everything. Once you came down to the gym to find Nat and me, and fuck, fuckfuckfuck, we were sparring and you complimented my stance. Almost fell to the floor right fucking there…right fucking there. God, I love you, I love you so much.”

You giggle, remembering exactly what he was talking about. That day, Natasha had a given you a file on Barnes that was incomplete. Whole sections of info was blocked out, obviously to keep someone without your level of clearance’s nose out of your patient’s business.

You went down to where FRIDAY had told you she was. You found her, just as Steve had said, sparring with him. He looked so good, sweaty and breathless. You had taken a leap, albeit an unprofessional one, and told him he looked nice. You thought he had interpreted it as sarcastic. Turns out, he knew exactly what you wanted.

You lean forward and press your lips to his, your noses brush. It’s not bruising, it’s beautiful, and loving, and sweet like nectar. You nuzzle forward and run your fingers through his hair, pulling a little. He moans and you smile devilishly.

“All we need is a safe word, and then we can get started.”

Steve smiles, too. His is more blissed out. He’s riding a high, and he never wants to come down.

You can say with certainty you don’t either.


End file.
